The Final Resistance
Writing in the box,
drinking a lemon
zinger, finding my
self particularly
boring right now.
Horses puked.
Nick’s back. He
brought lots of
goodies. I
find myself
soberly drawn
to rhyme, a
new addition
to my attraction
to rhythm, my
north, my end
less jungle.
Your hands are
like dicks
and their motivation
to commit (to be
committed). To
go on (and on).
To concentrate
on it. To culti
vate it. The
going of on.
